


madhouses are rarely on display

by atavistique (Rivers)



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Drug Use, Foot Fetish, Hair-pulling, M/M, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivers/pseuds/atavistique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the events of Pacific Rim, Newt finds himself adrift in Hong Kong. A chance encounter; a missing friend; a familiar antagonist; the price of genius. </p><p>  <i>It begins like this: a sign, a woman, and the sound of gunshots ringing in his ears.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	madhouses are rarely on display

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to the extremely talented and patient artist [homomiami](http://homomiami.tumblr.com/), who provided her brilliant art prompt; to my lovely beta [epistolic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/epistolic) for her feedback and putting up with my terrible epithets; and to the hardworking mods of [pacificrimreversebb](http://pacrimreversebb.livejournal.com/). 
> 
> Art prompt could be viewed [here](http://25.media.tumblr.com/666d6fed369cb4f00053a284366c9c4d/tumblr_n10nlbpweE1skae2po1_1280.png) and in-text.
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

0.

_He’s burning, burning so brightly. The walls and ceiling swim and pulsate around him in a sickening rhythm. The click and hiss of voices fill his mind, and an incandescent blue fire enters his lungs. He struggles against invisible bonds. He opens his mouth to scream, but hears nothing but echoing laughter. Pitch-black compound eyes bore into his own._

_We see you, little human._

 

1.

It begins like this: a sign, a woman, and the sound of gunshots ringing in his ears.

The club he’s slipped into is pulsating with the heavy bass of the music, writhing with flesh, the air aridly warm from bodies touching and sighs from behind heavy curtains. He zips up his leather jacket and tries to shrink into the crowd.

Above him on a small circular podium, a girl in leather eyes him, her gaze dark and glittering. She twirls, sinuous, her top riding up, showing off a fluorescent tattoo, some kind of tribal pattern, or a symbol. 

When the door bursts open, Newt only needs to catch one glimpse of the glistening black machines at the men’s belts to know he’s deeply, actually fucked, unless he thinks of something fast, but his mind is blank and hazy, and his feet stumble over themselves, and now one of the men is pointing at him,  _shit_. He’s breaking out in cold sweat, got maybe two minutes, maybe one, to run as fast as he can out the back door, presuming there  _is_  one – and then what? 

Newt’s not one to give up easily, but he’s got to admit, things are looking pretty bleak, and by god Hermann and Vanessa will never forgive him if he dies like a junkie degenerate in the middle of a disreputable nightclub in Lan Kwai Fong*. Plus he’s only thirty-seven; he’s not even made it on the stage yet, and  _war hero_  doesn’t exactly have the same ring to it. He’s not ready to go.

He looks around, desperate, and the dancer catches his eye again – now half-naked, breasts a subtle swell in the eerie blue light – and her tattoo makes him do a double-take: a luminous and abstract, but unmistakable, kaiju.

He’s seen that design before.

 

2.

PGP Version 20.9.8

(c) 1999 Network Associates Inc.

Export of this software may be restricted by the U.S. government.

File is encrypted.  Secret key is required to read it.

Key for user ID:

1024-bit DSS key, Key ID 0x........, created ..../../..

Key can sign.

You need a pass phrase to unlock your secret key.

Enter pass phrase:

Good signature from user "...".

Signature made 2027/08/29 14:25 GMT

Plaintext filename: omelette_du_fromage

 

###encryptedmessageCERN34890: engaging holophone message

To: H. Gottlieb, Senior Research Scientist.

From: N. Geiszler

 

Hey, uh, what’s up? Listen, we need to talk. Er, I might be in a bit of trouble.

 

###endencryption

 

3.

There’s no blood on her hands, but she feels it anyway, from memory, the slickness between her fingers, under her nails. It’s not something you can wash off with any amount of soap. 

Fang walks down the asphyxiated streets of New Mong Kok*, familiar with the sludge-coloured surroundings lined with garish neons, swirling together in the downpour that should be the last monsoon of the year. The sodden masses seem to have antennae, insect-like, touching her through sweeps of wet clothing and umbrellas, drawing back once they sense her mind. They peel from her like skin under blade, their fear a palpable, skittering sound even through the thick hood of her clothing.

Except for one person. White, male, mid-to-late thirties, abominable glasses, in a ruined leather jacket and a fortnight’s worth of stubble, bruised and cut and walking with a limp. She knows without turning around that he cannot be a threat, but he’s been following her for the better part of the day now, and it’s beginning to get tiresome.

“What kind of deal?” she asks, with a lick of amusement. “What could you possibly offer?”

He’s silent for a moment, and she thinks of masked men with oil-slicked guns and lies and snake-like minds, and maybe her hands itch for her blades, just a little.

 

4.

“Gotta say, doc, you have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Newt stares at his glistening bare chest, at the coiled dragon rising from his side, at the strip of towel slung low across his hips. It doesn’t exactly obscure the shape of the equipment underneath. He tries to reattach his jaw, and Hannibal smirks, all-gold. “Like what you see, little fella?” 

“I- I can come back later.” Suddenly, he is fearful. A lot has changed since the world almost ended, but there’s still a lot one can lose by being careless.

Trying to look at anything but the flexing muscles as Hannibal rolls his shoulders, Newt observes four things:

One: the deepened lines of his face, slightly this side of honest and weary.

Two: the scarred line across his left eye, the stained white where hemorrhage destroyed his depth perception.

Three: the way Hannibal’s gaze dips toward the tightening of his pants, the predaceous undercurrent electrifying under the sheer veil of casual civility.

Four: that apart from Fang, they were utterly alone.

“I have nothing to help you with,” Hannibal says, “no thanks to you lot.”

Newt’s fingers brush against the thumb drive in his pocket. “You can have me.”

 

5.

_Exhilaration. Pride. Love. He did it. Everything feels a little wobbly, like he’s looking at things underwater – but that was expected. It’s okay. It’s great. He feels the spark at the base of his brain raring to go, so alive, so intimate, so beautiful. He sees himself in his uncle’s basement, reverse-engineering a vintage amplifier. He’s in school, reading in the playground. Moving on, moving on…_

_Something’s niggling at his mind, though. It’s probably nothing; he’s forgotten to eat for a few days, it’s probably his brain telling him it needs energy. He drifts through his memories, utterly at peace._

_He’s looking at his father packing his suitcase when it begins: a darkness, at the edge of his vision, spreading fast, like ink in a water-tank. It hits him physically with the force of a truck, and he tumbles over, goes down yelling, clutching at his head._

_We see you, little human._

When he comes to, he’s lying in a puddle of vomit and his eye is bloodshot. A trickle of blood drips from his nostrils, which he wipes away with the back of his hand.

Well, human? Was it worth it? Your precious little boy-friend, so far away with his wife and child. Your criminal employer wiping your arse for you. Three factions of the triad after your tiny head.

We will kill them all. And then we’ll crush you like a  _kkrjiak._

Fang is striding across the lab to him and muttering gutter curses in Cantonese.

 

6.

It’s not all Precursors and kaiju and their tar-like hatred.

Some nights, he dreams of water droplets sliding down skin, the humid heat of the massage parlor, the writhing dragon; of broad hands pinning him down and coarse skin dragging along his own; of the soft arch of feet pressing into his ankles and being spread open, of ownership and surrender.

Some nights, he plays Chinese chess or Halo 6 with Fang, and they share a meal order of spring rolls and some kind of eye-wateringly spicy noodles. Her baldness and tattoos become a familiar comfort, and she shows her twin blades like a proud mother.

“If you betray my boss, I’ll slit your throat. If you hurt my boss in any way, I’ll slit your throat. If you talk shit about my boss, I’ll slit your throat.” She smiles with no irony, like she’s just made a knock-knock joke.

Newt swallows. “Can we watch a movie tonight?”

Fang considers him. “Yes,” she nods, “but if you try anything, I’ll cut your balls off.”

Some nights, Hannibal is there, resplendent in his usual crimson or sometimes peacock blue, impeccably tailored three thousand dollar suits. Apparently kaiju was ever only a part of his operation.

“How’s the weather?” Newt asks, trying not to knock things over, as he is prone to do in Hannibal’s presence.

“Still ready to shit brimstone on your head.” Hannibal says. “You made some powerful enemies.”

“Lucky I’m going to make you filthy rich then.” He bends over, at a slightly more acute angle than necessary, and retrieves a fallen sheaf of paper, adding it to a pile. “Here’s your report, boss.”

Hannibal makes a soft, rough sound and takes the file, the rough pads of his digits brushing across Newt’s knuckles. “You did good, kid.”

“Two million per annum merits more than a ‘good’, I think.”

“It depends. What do you want?”

Newt grins, and tells him.

“You’re insane,” Fang pipes up from polishing her gun. “Boss, tell him he’s insane.”

 

7.

###encryptedmessageCERN34934: engaging holophone message

To: H. Gottlieb, Senior Research Scientist.

From: N. Geiszler

Yeah I figured you’d be like this. Whatever. I sorted things out myself, no thanks to you. I’ll be laying low from now, so don’t bother to contact me or anything.

###endencryption

 

8.

The thing is, it’s not  _that_  dangerous.

Well, not-that-dangerous by Newt standards, which he admits is probably a tiny bit dicey for some others. But hey, he’s also a genius, and there was nary a rock star who made his name by playing it on the safe and boring side of the tracks.

“It was a simple problem.” He closes his eyes; the light is making them sore. “I wanted to synthesize a chemical to imitate the effects of Drifting, to allow people to feel connected – to allow them to feel the clarity, the openness, the acceptance, the  _togetherness,_ you know?” It was so simple, and so important. Newt had barred himself in his lab for five weeks after Hermann left with Vanessa, putting together the pieces of himself and the puzzle. And it had worked. 

Except for the part where he’d miscalculated the power of memories without the neural guide of a partner.

“You were in R.A.B.I.T. for a week,” Hannibal rumbles, resting his many-ringed fingers on his knees.

“I take it you ain’t keen to relive that experience. Gotta say, you look like shit for all the sleep you s’posedly got.”

“Yeah.”  _Clicking pincers_. “Nightmares’ll do that.”

 

9.

Newt is a storm-chaser in the howling wilderness of science.

Two years and five months later, he perfects the formula: for him, a temporary relief in every shot; and for the rich and expendable, an exciting new designer drug.

“You look skinnier,” Hannibal says once, leaning against the doorjamb to the shower.

Newt knows. He pokes at the slightly deflated kaiju on his stomach. “Yeah. Is it that bad?”

“’S fine,” he replies, clearly enjoying the view.

“You know, I’d ask you to join me, but you probably don’t want to ruin that suit.”

Hannibal hums, gives him an inscrutable look, and buys him new clothes and a thousand-dollar computer.

 

10.

They end up in a private room on the rooftop of some obscure but obscenely expensive restaurant in Repulse Bay*. There are lanterns everywhere, people everywhere, sounds and lights he hasn’t seen since his self-imposed house arrest.

“The Lantern Festival,” Fang says, staring down at the streets milling with crowds. She tells the story of a god, a terrible tyrant, and sixteen dragons, and another about a young girl about to end her life for her family.

“That’s kind of depressing.” Newt’s stuffing his mouth with dumplings, letting the sweet centre melt onto his tongue; there’s sesame and peanut and some kind of sweet bean paste that he could eat everyday until he’s buried, and even then he’d put in his will a request for libations of dumpling.

“How about this, then: The Lantern Festival is somthin’ like Chinese Valentine’s.” Hannibal pours himself another tiny cup of distilled wine. The smell of it lingers in the air, sharp and sweet. “How’s that for a first date?”

“Cool,” Newt says, and immediately regrets it.  _Cool?_  What is he, twelve? “I mean – it’s great. It’s amazing. I, um.”

“Great, we just broke him. Not that he wasn’t mad in the first place,” Fang eyes the entrance to the rooftop warily. “I’m going to have a look around again. Just in case.”

She disappears around a partition.

“Hey,” Hannibal says. Newt turns, questioningly, and abruptly he’s being kissed, all-consuming, no-holds-barred, the taste of rice alcohol and sugar and ginger and the slide of tongues making his head spin. It takes all the presence of mind he can muster not to squirm straight onto Hannibal’s lap; instead he holds onto the strong neck, digging his fingertips in, trying to say yes.

They’re hanging twenty feet above common lovers, warm and untouchable, and the world swings around them in fire and starlight.

 

11.

###encryptedmessageCERN37891: engaging holophone message

To: H. Gottlieb, Senior Research Scientist.

From: N. Geiszler

Hope Vanessa and Milly are doing well. Cantankerous bastard.

###endencryption

               

12.

[Click for larger](http://25.media.tumblr.com/666d6fed369cb4f00053a284366c9c4d/tumblr_n10nlbpweE1skae2po1_1280.png)

“You sure about this?” Hannibal says, eyeing Newt, who crawls forward on all fours until he reaches the space between Hannibal’s thighs.

He can smell it; the musk conducted through the small gap, all heat and salt and arousal, and it makes his mouth water so badly he has to swallow. “Yes,” he whispers. And then, because Hannibal’s still looking at him kind of dubiously like he can’t make up his mind whether to take his word for it, “Trust me. You’re gonna love it.”

“Ya-huh.” Hannibal tucks a hand under his head, his lowered eyes amused and indolent, the bastard.

Nothing motivates Newt like a challenge. He leans forward and kisses the fabric covering the crotch, hands rubbing the firm muscles of Hannibal’s thighs, breathing in the scent of it all. Hannibal sighs, and he puts his back into it, mouthing along the growing length until the material is almost soaked. 

Newt’s cock is straining painfully against his zipper; he moans and slides a hand down to free it, not touching it more than necessary – he does want this to last more than three seconds, after all. 

His fingers fumble as they move towards Hannibal’s fly, licking the base as his cock – oh God, so fucking  _big_ – springs upward and slaps him low on the face. He’s never wanted to get anyone’s pants off so fast, but his fingers meets unexpected resistance under the trouser legs. Curiosity wins over annoyance and he slides a palm along the calves.

“You like ‘em, babe?” Hannibal grins as Newt bends down to kiss the taut scarlet leather; the metal clasps are cold under his lips and sends a chill down his spine. Still, he needs to take  _something_  off before they get anywhere. And he needs a cock in him. Now.

“You can take them off if you like,” Hannibal says, nudging the toe of his boot against Newt’s dick, and he has to bite down a whimper.

“Yeah – er – I mean they’re really hot – but kind of in the way?” Newt unbuckles the elastic and rolls down Hannibal’s socks. He takes the shoes off on the way and thumbs the smooth back of Hannibal’s foot, fascinated by the projected ligaments and metatarsals under his touch.

“Little perv,” Hannibal snorts, nudging forward until his toe touches the tip of Newt’s cock. “That gets you off, doesn’t it? Look at you, gettin’ wet just like that.”

“As if you’re not enjoying it just as much,” Newt retorts, arching against the weight.

“You’re a mouthy little slut, aren’t ya. You need someone to stuff it for you, eh? Make you shut up proper?”

Newt groans. “Yeah.” He leans forward, wanting so badly he’s almost delirious. “Stuff my mouth.”

Thick fingers scrape across his scalp and tugs on his hair. “Beg for it.”

“Please,” he yelps. Fuck, he’s leaking, and Hannibal knows it, rubbing the arch of his foot into the mess and around his dick lightly, and he’s going to go fucking insane before he’s allowed to come –

He gulps, “Please let me suck your cock.”

 

13.

He should’ve known it was never going to last.

 

14.

Hannibal huffs, bringing his head forwards, and  _oh_ , there it is, nudging against his lips, hot and salty and heavy and  _glorious_ , and he wraps his mouth around it and sucks like he was born for it. Hannibal pushes upward, feeding him inch after inch until it touches the back of his throat; he gags and Hannibal backs off just a little. Gratefully, he tongues the groove under the glans and swipes across the slit as he forces himself to relax his jaw and breathe through his nose, and he’s being tugged forward again. 

“C’mon, babe. You can take it all, right?” Hannibal coaxes, rubbing the pad of his foot directly down the length of Newt’s dick, and Newt shivers and tries to convey assent as much as possible around his mouthful. He’s pulled forward again, eyes watering, willing past the gag reflex and allowing the sheer want for Hannibal’s cock down his throat to take over – and then he’s feeling his nose bury in coarse hair, stuffed full and almost choking on it.

“Yeah,” Hannibal breathes, fingers tightening painfully. “Lick it. Kiss it. Show me how much you love it.” And Newt hums and moves, earning a low  _fuck_  from Hannibal, and he sucks and kisses the tip of it, feeling his own dick twitch with every touch of Hannibal’s foot, and god, he’s going to –

Hannibal digs in with his heel and Newt almost cries from the pressure the same moment he feels himself get impossibly harder. “Please, shit, please, I need to come – “

“Are you telling me what to do, boy?” A not-so-sharp pull urges him to continue, and he sniffles and pouts until Hannibal’s lips twitch, but he still does his job, tracing the vein with his tongue and taking the entire length in. The hand in his hair loosens and scrapes across his skull. “Ah – such a good boy. Took it so well.” Newt closes his eyes and sucks harder. “You want it? You want me to come down your throat, eh?” 

As a reply, he looks directly into Hannibal’s eyes, closes his throat around the head and swallows.

Hannibal swears, grabs his hair again, and bucks into him hard. Newt barely tastes the come as he takes it, and once he stops coughing, licks a drop of it off his lips; his throat and jaw are so sore he probably won’t feel like talking for days. Or a few hours.

“Shit, kid, that was somethin’,” Hannibal says, panting. “You earned this.” His heel loosens and his toes are tucking under Newt’s balls, pressing against – and he’s screaming and coming without even touching himself.

 

15.

It falls apart like this:

_It’s a strange place from a birds’-eye view: the architecture and technology clearly shows a civilized and advanced race, and yet the raw, organic feeling of the buildings makes him shudder and his stomach turn, indescribable colours making his head ache._

_A chanting reverberates in his mind, even though his ears only hear silence. A war cry, an enchantment._

_Death. Death. Death. Death to the Terrans. Death to Humans._

_There’s fear, a fear that doesn’t belong to him, a presence that overlaps with his own, a familiar yet alien blanket of emotion: protectiveness and terror and resolve._

Hermann?

 

16.

He wakes up in a dry heat reminiscent of Las Vegas, circa the last year of grad school, head swimming and skin blistering, his lungs struggling to draw oxygen from ash and smoke.

Hannibal’s robe is still tucked around him loosely. The man himself is nowhere to be seen.

Fang emerges from a doorway, bloodied and limping, one of her blades missing. “Quick,” she says, “they’ve found us. We must go.”

“The house is on fire.” And it’s my fault, he thinks, bewildered. All that lab work. All of Hannibal’s stuff, his cigars, his clothes. “Where’s – ?”

 “I’ll find him,” Fang hisses from between her teeth. “Get up. Now.”

“Okay, okay! Just let me grab my laptop – “

“The lab’s gone, you idiot.” Newt’s stomach sinks even further. Of course, the methane gas – the laptop would be a useless lump of silicone by now. “Now  _quick march_.”

They run from room to room holding damp rags to their faces, down several flights of stairs, along a corridor, down into a basement. Fang tugs open a manhole and shoves him in without giving him time to protest, Hannibal’s oversized robe hanging about his ankles as he lands on his feet. 

“You reckon he’ll be alright?” Newt asks.

“I don’t know.” There’s a sound of something hitting the floor and a small, bitten-off grunt; Fang seems to have fallen on her knees.

“Hey, man, you okay?” Newt says, alarmed. Fang cannot be fallible, not when he needs her strength more than ever.

 “I’ll be fine,” she sighs. He walks tentatively forward to help her stand. She slaps his hand away, and it comes away slippery, viscous.

“Shit, you’re bleeding a lot.”

“Shut up and go. I’ll be right behind you.”

The darkness stretches a long way ahead of them.

 

17.

They surface, of all places, on the old pier at the harbour’s edge. The water slaps against the worn surface of concrete, the smell of salt and industrial wastes diffusing in the air. 

Somewhere, a clock strikes four.

 

18.

+852 6860 7879

Nobody steals from us. We should kill you all. But we’re both businessmen; there’s no sense in unnecessary violence. Give us your thief as the price of peace.

 

19.

He doesn’t like people touching his things.

But he will skin anyone who even thinks about touching his family.

 

20.

Fang has a broken leg and massive blood loss. The black-market surgeon beckons Newt forward, his aged hands reassuring and solemn, signaling towards his patient.

She seems so brittle against the ratty sheets, needle disappearing into the crook of her arm.

Newt is not a hero. He’s not even a rock star. He realizes that, now. Hermann’s always been the one who wanted in the military, ramrod-straight everywhere and throwing around salutes like a gesture he couldn’t unlearn. But Hermann isn’t here now, nor Hannibal, nor Fang. There’s no one to goad Newt into acts of reckless genius, or to hold him at gunpoint until he runs to a kaiju shelter.

Think, Newt, think. What do they want? They want the data, so give them the data. He’s finished with it anyway, and he’d give anything to be finished with them, too. To get Hannibal back. To get Fang back.

His heart thunders in his ears. It’s time to do something very, very stupid.

 

21.

Hannibal rolls his eyes at the warehouse. Never was a bunch for subtlety, the Hong Kong sewer rats.

“Where’s the crook?” It’s a young one, much too eager and careless under his crass tattoos. His friends –  about five armed men – appear discomfited, sullen: dissention amongst the ranks. Frankly, he’s krill to the fishes; there would be scarcely any pleasure in frying this one.

 Hannibal forces himself to relax into his chair. “I’ll parley only with a shot-caller and that ain’t you, punk.”

“I dunna think y’know your predicament,” he drawls, fishing out a sawed-off barrel. The other men follow suit. “Boss gave us rights to pull your card ‘n all.”

Hannibal slides a hand into his pocket. They’re all so young; since when did the triad recruit infants to their ranks? Much is the pity, but business is business.

Somewhere in the warehouse, a door clangs open.

 

22.

###encryptedmessageCERN45970: outgoing message (attachments)

To: N. Geiszler

From: H. Gottlieb, Senior Research Scientist.

Re: Milly

 

Hope this finds you in time. Our nightmares are real. They’re coming.

 

Abstract  
A propos discovery of surviving extraterrestrial invaders (ex hic in. “Precursors”) by residual neurochemical connection from the three-way drift between Drs. Gottleib and Geiszler, investigation is initiated to develop further military strategies to neutralize threats to world peace...

 

 Previous counter-kaiju methods included the deployment of nuclear weapons and manually piloted devices. The Jaeger program, however, was retired two years prior and veteran pilots indisposed by various means… comprehensive debriefs after Operation Pitfall in particular reflected great cost to human lives involved….

 

 This document outlines the development of an alternative solution, namely novel anti-matter warhead (Antimatter-Alternative Implosion Apparatus; ex hic in. “AMALIA”) utilizing prior research conducted by LHC and quantum physics laboratories in this institution (CERN, Meyrin, Switzerland), followed by a proposal for carrier and mathematical model for launch-time estimates…  

 

{AMALIA_criticaldensity_phaseIV.gzip} 184 Gb

 

###endencryption

 

23.

“Amalia,” he says in monotone, “where is it?” 

“Dude, not to be prissy, but your choice of pronoun is just rude. Milly’s a little girl, not the keys to your dad’s Toyota.” Newt shifts, feeling the cold sweat trickle down between his bare shoulder-blades.

The man chuckles, the angry mark on his face warping with his muscles. “Eggheads.” His tone is almost fond.

The punch lands squarely on Atticon on his solar plexus; he’d double over in pain if he weren’t zip-tied to the chair. Do gangsters use zip-ties? Newt stares at his interrogator’s sleek black clothing. Nothing about the situation feels like gangster.

“I’ll ask again. Where is the file?”

“I told you! Everything you want is in the USB!”

His lips curl back in a snarl and Newt braces himself for impact.

When it comes, the walls are caving in.

 

24.

Dust. Darkness. The humid stench of crowds, and the overwhelming smell of ammonia. 

Bioluminescent tongues, dripping acid corroding concrete; flowering out and twisting around him; keen cruel eyes seeking his own. Intelligent. Purposeful.

Hermann’s hand in Newt’s; the tug and throw of the Drift. Loneliness; genius; stupidity - left brain; right brain; wonderland.

_Our nightmares are real. They’re coming._

_A fear that doesn’t belong to him._

A gold-plated shoe in his hands.

 

25.

“You think he’ll be alright?” Fang leans on her crutch, peering at Newt’s sleeping face, watching the twitch of his eyes.

Hannibal grunts. “He better be. He owes me that much.”

Of course, nothing ever escapes her notice. She blinks. “Really? Him, of all people?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re yammerin’ about.”

“You forget, you made me who I am, practically brought me up. You may’ve fooled the triad and the MSS*, but you can’t fool me, old man.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Does he know? That you –“

“Maybe.”

“He ought to, if he knows what’s good for him.”

They fall silent after that, the muted TV screen washing blue and red over the hospital walls, listening to the fitful beeping of machinery.

 

26.

BREAKING NEWS: Conspiracy theorist claims CERN Scientist involved in cover-up – anti-matter weaponry rumored in Phase 5 production. Dr. Gottleib, principal scientist, declines comment.

 

 

 

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> * Lan Kwai Fong : Fancy pub district in Central, Hong Kong, as of 2014; a well-known tourist trap for Westerners. Through major redevelopment after the kaiju attacks and because of gross overpopulation in the 2020s, the posh parts of this district were shunted further West into Sai Wan along the beachfront, merging with and updating existing eateries, while LKF itself morphed into a kind of careless, dilapidated red light district, attracting a decidedly less wholesome crowd. 
> 
> *New Mong Kok: Re-developed borough of Mong Kok, a bustling commercial/residential area where there are more people than curried fish balls in the district. Cars zigzag between lanes, honking and excreting suffocating gases; sweaty people rub shoulders literally from lack of moving space; older residential buildings, modern high-rise buildings, hawker stalls, restaurants, stacked against each other like dominos. You can get most things a fraction of the price here compared to other districts in Hong Kong, if you could withstand the humid heat and crowd. After it was razed to the ground by Reckoner, people built a rickety slum around its carcass and renamed the place New Mong Kok, or Kowloon Boneslum. 
> 
> *Repulse Bay: Rich people’s residential area, with synthetic beachfront and fancy restaurants. Known as the last line of defense against the proletariat.
> 
> *MSS: Ministry of Security of the People’s Republic of China. Foreign intelligence.
> 
> Title “madhouses are rarely on display” is from a poem by Charles Bukowski, [“a horse with greenblue eyes”](http://disillusionedcupotea.tumblr.com/post/17947849682/nocternity-a-horse-with-greenblue-eyes-what-you). He’s not my favourite, but he’s apt for Newt. 
> 
> I'm a native-born Hong Konger, and lived there for nineteen years. Since graduation from high school I've been in three countries over six years, but no matter where I go, Hong Kong is where my heart resides. 
> 
> Both Newt and Hermann use Linux command-line operating systems, of which I have some experience but am in no way an expert. Some of the code is plain bullshit as I have no idea what kind of encryption CERN uses (otherwise I wouldn’t be a lowly grad student, ha). Kindly overlook any mistakes I’ve made in that context.
> 
> Amalia: affectionately known as "Milly", Hermann and Vanessa’s first-born, a daughter, three years old at time of events. In case the abstract was tl;dr, it was consequently adopted as an acronym for his independent project: Antimatter-Alternative Implosion Apparatus 
> 
> Weapons development phase was based on [this](http://nnsa.energy.gov/ourmission/managingthestockpile/nwlifecycle)
> 
> Thank-you for reading my fic ♥ Reviews and kudos are always treasured. If you’d like to contact me about this fic or just hit me up for some fannish/friendly convo, feel free to email atavistique at gmail dot com, or go to my [tumblr](http://atavistique.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/atavistique). I promise I don’t own a balisong.


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